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The tiny, weird, little journey of thoughts!


I often wonder what am I so preoccupied about that I can't pick up a pen and write.. I can't sit down and think about things. Things that mattered to me once, about thinking itself. My weird little thoughts when I was a child. I would associate people's faces with weird animals, would crease every line on their face and every reaction of their's in my mind, of what is happening inside my body at that precise moment... blood flowing into veins and out of arteries into my heart, of my flesh, bones and my skull. 

Its really weird, isn't it? And then I would think of thoughts itself, how they flow in and out, how they open myriad windows in my mind, each jutting off into their own rambles simultaneously, of things which I barely notice nowadays, like the trees, the centipedes that sit clustered in hundreds on the moist cement pavement which I happen to notice as I go to class everyday, of the beautiful designs and patterns on their wriggling bodies, how the million nerves of a leaf get illuminated and revealed by the sun's rays falling into each particle of the leaf, of the ants crawling everywhere, into horizontal and vertical planes alike, about their six tiny feet moving back and forth and propelling their bodies forward. 

Of the patterns on my skin, tiny little lines on my body that appear when I bend my wrist or stretch it, of how my nerves and skin stretch and my blue veins show mildly through my translucent skin on my feet, of the million patterns on my skin, my moist, dusky skin, of my short hair that curls up to my ears and how it flies in the direction of the breeze, the tiny dimples that appear on the both sides of my chin whenever I smile.

about my keyboard which doesn't have the number 9 key, once I noticed a dead frog turned upside down on the road, not a rare scene in my campus. It might have probably been hit by a bus. I sat down next to it and looked at it closely and thought about its green and yellow slimy skin covered in dirt, of how it lay there its legs spread and in complete peace... Why should we always associate death with tragedy? It is actually peace, when I tread near the bamboos, I also tend to observe the dried, yellow, long leaves, how they crumble into crisp dust of yellow when crushed and flow out of my hands when I blow them away, but as I smell them, the smell of dry bamboo leaves stick to my hand. 

Do you see where we have come? We have come to my life right now and I have come to thinking like I did when I was a child! :) 

I am glad you accompanied me in my little weird journey!

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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

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I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.